The Last Day
by DabblesInDirewolves
Summary: Ellis's last day before things become all too real.


It was early morning, and Ellis was sleepy.

A brisk and gentle breeze soared through the open window, caressing his sweating face. He blinked twice, momentarily startled as the vision in his right eye blurred. However, another blink cleared the sweat from his lashes; this was relieving, as he'd had some evidence pop up lately that maybe his dear old mother had been right about the glasses.

"Just go blind then, you stubborn cuss!" the old woman had scolded him a week ago, swatting him on the head lovingly with a dishtowel as she nagged. "Just don't come crying to me when you're as blind as your grandpappy!"

Ellis had laughed at that, and good-naturedly teased her about throwing stones in glass houses, since her vision was in fact so poor she couldn't get a stone through a glass house if she was ten feet away from it. She'd huffed and changed the subject.

She'd been right, but shucks, it's not like she didn't know it.

Despite the early hour, the small one-bedroom trailer was warm, too warm…in fact, on the way to being very uncomfortable. The South wasn't known for its leadership in test scores or dental hygiene or basic human acceptance, but when it came to heat, Savannah tended to score on the higher end of the curve.

Ellis wove a familiar path through the hallway and living room, patiently winding his way through stacked newspapers and laundry baskets. The place wasn't dirty, per se, but it could use a good decluttering. Something for he and Keith to work on this weekend, Ellis mused. Housework wasn't at the top of his Hell-Yeah-Good-Times List, but Keith would find some way to make it into a game, and a nice frosty six-pack of Miller Light would definitely make the sweaty work more enjoyable.

The tiny kitchen at the end of the trailer seemed cooler than the rest of the house, but that may have had something to do with the screen-without-an-actual-screen-door. Ellis paused on his way to the coffeepot, letting his fingers rest on the door handle as he inhaled deeply. The scents wafting through the door were both unique and complementary; the air was fragranced with the sharp sting of pine and the overwhelming make-your-eyes-water smell of freshly-mown grass, tempered with the deep, earthy scent of the forest, of the trees and flowers and dirt-roads. To Ellis, it smelled of home, and it was wonderful.

If possible, Ellis would have gladly spent the remainder of the day enjoying the outdoors, but work waited for no one. Even going into business with Keith and Dave hadn't lowered his work hours, although it wasn't like he was complaining. Ellis loved his job, loved the people he saw on a daily basis, loved the old trucks and shiny Harley's that were brought to him for help. He especially loved the feeling of being coated from fingers to forearms in motor oil, despite the fact that it limited his wardrobe to clothing not predominantly white. Those stains were real tricky, and it always amazed him how easily the black surrendered and vanished when she washed…

Ellis shook his head, momentarily taken aback by his own thought process. He'd trained his mind well the past few weeks, and slip-ups like this were uncommon.

The coffeepot stood on the counter in a silent vigil, encouraging him to whip up some much-needed caffeine. He went through the motions without truly thinking of them, something that tends to happen with repetitive tasks. He removed the bag of coffee grounds from the cabinet and set it on top of a fairly large stack of papers that rested beside the sink; the bag wobbled and slumped to one side, spilling a fair amount of brownish-black powder over half the headline. CEDA BAFFLED AS was still fairly readable; RABIES VIRUS CLAIMS SIX MORE IN SOUTHERN MISSISSIPPI had taken the brunt of the java ambush.

Of course there would be difficulties; he should have remembered that he'd used up the last of the coffee filters yesterday. He puzzled for a moment before trying the other cabinets…perhaps he'd left a few loose ones floating around? Success finally came from the last door he tried; the cupboard held a few, slightly smashed filters stashed away behind a box of Nestle hot chocolate mix.

Ellis paused in his rummaging to run one finger slowly down the side of the cocoa mix. His eyes felt itchy, and he figured it didn't have too much to do with the pollen that was currently wreaking havoc in his front yard.

Amy had hated coffee.

She had hated it with a passion unrivaled, a hatred that Eliis had a hard time comprehending. He could still remember the looks of revulsion she had given his beloved mug each morning as she prepared her hot chocolate.

"It's so hot Satan's wearing a sweatband, and somehow you still choke that crap down," she had said to him about a month ago. A couple of days before The Talk.

Ellis had laughed; their individual morning drinks of choice had been a favorite teasing topic for both of them.

"Hell, them's fighting words around here," he had exclaimed, playing along. "Why doncha go ahead and stick a finger in each of them. You'll whip it out of that hot chocolate crap just as quick as you do the coffee." And she had laughed too, and kissed him, kissed him with sleep-sweat in his unwashed hair and oil-blackened fingernails and chipped front tooth, kissed him as though he was handsome and successful and intelligent, kissed him as if she loved him as deeply as he loved her.

That, of course, was before The Talk.

Ellis stood for a moment in his sun-warmed kitchen, observed by nothing but peeling wallpaper and chipped Formica, with one finger still resting casually against the cocoa mix. He briefly flirted with the notion of having one last cup; there couldn't be much more in the box, and it wasn't like he _hated_ cocoa. Ellis had a hard time _hating_ anything, with the exception of Dale Jr. when he outraced Jimmy Gibbs, but that was the exception to the rule.

But then he remembered the last cup of cocoa he'd partaken in; incidentally, it was also the first cup of cocoa he'd ever made. The process had been simple enough, but the feeling of it was all wrong. It hadn't been the type of cocoa that Nestle The Very Best had imagined. It hadn't been cocoa lovingly made by a mother waiting for her kids to come in from the cold, or cocoa laced with schnapps shared by a couple wrapped in a blanket in front of a roaring fire. It had been the cup of cocoa you make when your heart was breaking and your chest was on fire, the cup of cocoa that was synonymously a gesture of both love and helplessness. And it wasn't sweet enough and wasn't thick enough, and he had drained the entire scorching mug to cool the flames of despair that were licking up his esophagus and along his throat.

Her mug had been left behind, untouched and lonely…

Ellis huffed and snatched up the filters, tossing them on top of the coffee grounds. He made a violent move towards the Nestle mix, and at the last minute stopped himself and closed the cabinet door.

It wasn't taking up much room, anyway.

It was mid-afternoon, and Ellis was busy.

Summer had barely been whispering to Savannah this morning; now, it was screaming. At 2:17, the temperature had risen to the high-nineties, and the dusty track that ran alongside Jones, Martin, and Trace Mechanics was hazy and shimmering in the incessant waves of heat. It didn't bother Ellis a bit; when he was focused, he became immune to trivial things like the weather, hunger, and physical discomfort.

"Come on now," he reasoned with the wrench that was currently doing a dance of sorts in his sweaty grip. The bolt he was after was inconveniently placed, and Ellis had contorted himself in order to reach it.

A pair of jean-clad legs appeared before him, and a voice announced, "Boy, you are havin' a time of it. Maybe you ought to think about trading these tools in for one o'them little plastic sets. I got a niece with a Barbie Jeep in need of some tunin'."

Ellis paused long enough to expertly transfer the wrench to his other hand and send it sailing backwards into Dave's knee. "Tag," he said matter-of-factly. Dave barely had time to start bitchin' before Ellis had returned the wrench to the bolt and tightened it. He slid out from beneath the Chevy in one quick motion, placing one hand into the hot dirt to push himself to his feet. "Your girlfriend's base, by the way," he added, removing a red bandana from his overalls and wiping his face. "I'll come by later to tag'er."

Dave continued to grumble for a moment, but Ellis was saved from retaliation by a cheerful jingle as the tiny bell over the door into the shop's office announced Keith's arrival.

"Damn son, must have been a long line at the Dairy Queen. Where you been for the past…" Dave consulted his watch, "two hours?"

"I've been here, and hush. You guys aren't gonna believe what I just done."

"If the answer's work, then yeah, I don't believe it," Ellis worked the bandana around his fingers, his subconscious battle against the stains that would always win.

"Hush boy, or you ain't gettin' a split." Keith reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He smoothed it out and flourished it at Dave and Ellis like it was a check from the dadgum Publisher's Clearinghouse.

"You boys are looking at a shareholder of 100 cases of aw-thentic Midnight Riders fireworks. The boys put on a half-ass show one night and now they're just giving the damn things away. I bought the last hundred."

Ellis felt a pleasant rush of joy. "Hot damn man! Them things shoot forever!"

"Damn right they do, and I'm just pleased as punch that you boys are so excited, seeing as how paychecks are gonna be a little thin this go-around."

"You used our money for fireworks? We ain't gettin' paid?" Dave asked.

"You're gettin' paid in fireworks," Keith reminded him.

Ellis caught Dave's eye and they both grinned. Hell, this day wasn't half-bad.

A sudden cloud of dust obscured the yard as an old Toyota chugged slowly off of the road and into the lot. Ellis recognized both the truck and driver, and waved as Mike Matthews killed the engine.

"Howdy, Mike," he greeted the newcomer as the rusted blue door cracked open. "Hell, I know it's been hot lately, but you sure you wantin' a window that don't roll up?" he nodded pointedly to the windshield, which was currently missing about two-thirds of the glass it had started with.

"Just figured you boys would be bored out here, with only the heat to occupy you," Mike returned with a grin, offering an outstretched hand to Ellis, Dave, and Keith in turn.

"Don't think that's how you put in a sunroof," Keith added his two cents, running a trained eye along the windshield, already estimating the size, manufacturers, prices.

"Tell that to the smart-alecky buck who decided to play wrecking ball on I-42 yesterday," Mike said ruefully. "Whaddya reckon, Keith? Should I look into selling the yacht and summer home yet?"

"Ah, shucks. This little ole' scratch?" Keith wrote a few notes on his palm with a black Sharpie, and then disappeared into the shop office, already mumbling to himself.

Ellis, Dave, and Mike remained in the yard, shooting the breeze. They discussed the usual niceties: families, weather, sports, hunting, cars. The sun continued to pulse away above them, radiating heat onto the already-smothering landscape. Dave was fanning himself with his cap, and Mike was loosening the buttons on his thick overshirt. Ellis and Dave were filling Mike in on their recent firework acquisition when Mike finally gave in to the impending heatstroke and removed his red overshirt.

"Damn," Ellis broke in over Dave's fifth harebrained fireworks-related scheme in a row. "Old buck take a chunk outta you after he improved your air-conditioning?" his eyes rested curiously on the large patch of gauze that was taped firmly in place on Mike's right shoulder.

Mike reached up and rubbed his shoulder restlessly. "Nah, that was some crazy shit. Went out to Atlanta couple of nights ago with some buddies. Crazy asshole in a bar on 8th decided he wanted to roll, and when he saw I wasn't likely to let him leave with all his teeth, the bastard bit a hole in my fucking arm."

"It was that rabies shit," Dave piped up immediately. "Spreadin' like the plague down in Mississippi and Florida."

"He wasn't rabid, just an asshole," Mike insisted. "Otherwise, I'd have put him down faster'n Old Yeller."

The men laughed at that, and continued on their earlier train of topics. Even though the rabies virus that had stumped the Center of Disease Control and medical experts had been unsettling at first, it was old news. When the first stories had cropped up a couple of months ago, Ellis, Dave, and Keith had immediately come to the conclusions that the cause was either 1. Zombies (Ellis.) 2. Aliens (Dave.) or 3. Zombies controlled and released by the government onto the unsuspecting populace (Keith.) That particular issue had been talked to death already, and it was becoming commonplace to hear of more attacks. Sometimes the boys like to speculate on it when the conversation ran dry, but not today. It was too hot to get worked up.

Keith rejoined them a short time later with an estimate for Mike's windshield. They discussed the particulars for a moment, and then Dave and Ellis prepared to go to work while Keith ran the paperwork.

"Hey!" Keith paused at the door, turning back around as though a thought had just struck him. "Forgot to mention earlier, but I picked up some fine-looking steaks last weekend. Thought I'd bring 'em over to your place tonight and borrow the grill."

"Sure thing!" Ellis agreed readily.

"Miller or Coors?" Dave asked.

"Both."

"That's what I figured."

Keith withdrew into the office, and Ellis headed around the yard as Dave pulled the truck around. Ellis glanced back at the front door to give Mike a little have-her-done-soon sort of deal, but Mike was apparently distracted, gazing off into the distance and massaging his arm.

It was late afternoon, and Ellis was happy.

It was no longer hotter than blue blazes; the sun was still going strong, but the shadows had lengthened and the cooler was icy. Ellis and his two best friends sat underneath the cool pines on metal lawnchairs, surrounded by a smog of meaty-tinged smoke and the buzzing of cicadas.

Somehow, they had managed to get on the topic of animal husbandry, and Dave spent a long ten minutes regaling them with a story of being bitten by a mishandled mare a few years back.

"Lucky the poor thing didn't die a'poisionin'," Ellis said lazily from beneath his cap.

"Seriously," added Keith. "Dave, if somebody bit you, then _they_ would get rabies."

"Was it you exchanging love bites with Mike?" Ellis teased.

"What's that?" Keith asked curiously.

Ellis and Dave recounted Mike's story for Keith, who listened quietly, tapping a beer bottle against his leg. "Gettin' real uncomfortable with all this disease shit goin' around," he sighed.

"Aw, hell," Ellis blew it off, pushing himself up to check the steaks. "It's always something or other goin' around."

"He's right, though," Dave interjected. "Damn aliens are gonna rain hell on us if we let 'em."

"This again?" Keith asked wearily as Ellis piled thick slabs of meat onto a plate. They bantered back and forth for a moment as they followed Ellis through the door into the kitchen, but the squabble died relatively quickly as The Fishing Channel captured their attention. The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of good food and friendly conversation. The slit of sky through Ellis's living room window had turned reddish-pink by the time Dave stood and stretched.

"Well boys, it's been a pleasure as always." The men exchanged goodbye's, and Dave packed up the remainder of his beer stash and left.

"Poor guy and his curfew," Keith commented as soon as the truck pulled out of the drive. Discussing Dave's overbearing girlfriend was one thing; doing it in front of him was another.

"Hell, least he's got one," Ellis pointed out. The loss of Amy was still fresh, but he'd never been the type to get worked up over things like that in public. Even if it was only Keith.

"Mark my words, you're better off without her. She ain't worth it." Keith said airily. It wasn't to be malicious, Ellis knew. That's just how they consoled each other.

"I know," he said shortly, unwilling to carry the subject further. In a practiced move, he popped the lid on his Marlboro pack and slipped a cigarette out. The remaining bits of tobacco danced around the slightly-crushed pack as Ellis peered mournfully inside. "Hey man, wanna run out with me and grab some more?" he gestured to the empty box of cancer, wishing for the hundredth time that his mama had beaten him senseless when she first caught him with the damn things.

Keith was agreeable, and the two men locked up Ellis's trailer and stepped into the warm evening.

Keith insisted on driving as usual, so Ellis clambered into the passenger's seat and propped an elbow against the door. As Keith gunned the engine and pulled down the drive, Ellis watched contentedly as his home faded into the distance, not realizing that he would never see it again.

It was early evening, and Ellis was pleased.

The tiny convenience store on 2nd street was being tended that night by Buddy Graves, a regular at the shop and a close friend of the mechanics. He greeted them heartily when they arrived, and thanked Ellis again for some off-the-books work done on his truck a few weeks earlier.

"Weren't no trouble," Ellis assured him. Buddy, who used to run 'round with their little group, had developed some health problems that ate up a considerable amount of his time and financial resources. Ellis hadn't thought twice about offering his services for free.

"Still, I appreciate it," Buddy said. "I got a few folks wanting to hire me for some yardwork, so things are looking up. So to celebrate, you boys are gonna grab a couple of cases and walk outta here happy as pigs in shit."

Ellis grinned. It wasn't no Publisher's Clearinghouse, but it sure wasn't nothing to sneeze at.

A rush of heat sailed through the small shop as another man entered. Ellis and Keith left Buddy to his customer and walked over to the coolers. "Reckon one's all I need," Ellis said, grabbing a case of Miller and hauling it out of the cooler. "I figure a case of beer is plenty payback for them awesome steaks."

"Hell, I'll take it," Keith said eagerly, giving the newspaper he had picked up another cursory glance before tossing it onto a rack. He considered his options, opened a door, bent over, paused for a few moments, and then removed his wallet and rifled through it. Apparently satisfied, he stacked a Coors on top of a Miller and straightened.

"What the hell you doin', boy?" Ellis asked distractedly. He was only giving his friend half of his attention; the other half was drawn to the heading on the discarded paper. It was bent so that all he could see was "Quarantine" but he didn't have much trouble guessing the rest.

"Nothin'," Keith replied, closing the cooler with his foot and heading towards the counter. "I was just struck with this odd notion to double up. This may mean a party in our foreseeable future. Hell, now it's a party with _fireworks."_

The men got in line behind the customer at the counter, chatting idly about crazy parties they had attended previously and even crazier ones to come. They paused their chatter long enough to step aside as the man finished paying and edged past them to the door. Ellis gave him a nod and a "'scuse me," noting that the guy seemed to be limping slightly, favoring his right leg.

Keith sat his two cases on the counter and pulled out the money to pay. "Uh-oh," he said suddenly, picking up a thin brown wallet that was resting on the slab of counter in front of the cash register. "Looks like that guy walked off without it. He still around?"

"Here," Ellis held out his hand. "I'll go hunt him down. I'll meet ya at the truck. Don't forget my beer!"

Ellis hurried out of the door, pausing to look both ways in case the man was close. He spotted a few people; no muscular black men in khakis, though. He flipped the wallet open and examined the ID, reassuring himself that he could recognize the man if he saw him…his eyes also ranged over the name, Jackson Malone, and the address. The address was just a couple of miles across town, so it wouldn't be too hard to do a drive-over.

But he spotted the guy a split-second later, standing beside a car parked at the back of the lot. He was patting his pockets with one hand as the other scrabbled uselessly on his dark driver's seat.

"Sir, wait!" Ellis called out as he came closer. "You forgot your wallet!"

The man looked up, and the relief was visible on his face. "If it ain't one thing, it's anotha," he said in a deep, noticeably Southern accent. He accepted the wallet and offered his other hand to Ellis. "Thanks, man. I woulda been in a fix if you hadn'a found me."

"Sure thing," Ellis said, shaking his hand. It was much too dark in the dimly-lit parking lot to catch a good view of the man's face, but Ellis did notice his wide smile. A second later they were momentarily doused in white light as another car pulled into the parking lot, and Ellis took note of the Midnight Riders t-shirt that the stranger was wearing. "Nice shirt, man. Love the Riders."

"Hell yeah. Been a fan since the first album." The guy was friendly, although noticeably distracted, judging by the way he kept glancing longingly at his car. Ellis gave him a farewell nod and walked away, leaving him to fiddle with his keys, Big Gulp, and several small packs of munchies.

He found Keith at the truck, locked in a sort of vertical wrestling match with the three cases of beer. "Help me out with these damn things, would ya?" Keith asked exasperatedly.

"Sure," Ellis agreed. He made a move as though to take the cases, and at the last minute snagged the keys that were dangling haphazardly from Keith's pinky finger. He unlocked the truck amidst a flurry of good-natured curses and stood aside for Keith to stash the beer. He reached into the breast pocket of his faded and stained yellow shirt, only to sigh. Of course, the one thing he'd come out for had been the one thing he'd forgotten. Keith razzed him before following him back to the convenience store, but that was to be expected.

It was completely dark outside by now, the only light emitting from the dim streetlights that peppered the parking lot. When Ellis noticed Buddy moving around just inside the door, he thought for a split-second that he was closing up. But that couldn't be right, there was no way it could be ten o'clock yet, and that's when they usually called it a d…

The calm night was suddenly rent apart by an otherworldly, earth-shattering scream. Ellis and Keith barely had time to exchange a wide-eyed stare before a huge weight was thrown against the convenience store door; the glass exploded and rained out over the sidewalk, the large shards creating a dangerous obstacle course. Ellis immediately launched himself towards the door, his heavy boots crushing the glass into tiny crystals beneath his feet.

Buddy Graves was lying in the shambles of the door, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead and several tiny cuts that laced his arms. Ellis dropped to his knees, wincing slightly as a shard of glass punctured his jeans and lodged in his skin. His own ailments were of little concern; for a wild moment, Ellis thought that Buddy had suffered a heart attack or stroke, causing him to lose his balance. On the heels of that morbid thought was another, even worse than the first…but as Ellis reached out to lift Buddy's eyelid, the man coughed, spewing a fountain of blood, and cracked his eyes open.

Ellis could hear his own heart pounding in his ears, but it seemed to stop beating entirely as Buddy's gaze locked onto his. The man's eyes were rolling in their sockets, terror evident as lifeblood streamed out onto the baking Savannah asphalt, forming rivers of gore. "Run," he spat, his lips tinged crimson.

"Buddy, we're calling the ambulance! Just hold on," Ellis said, afraid the injured man was delusional. He was tugging at the bandana in his pocket to staunch the bleeding, wondering where in the seven hells Keith had run off to, when Buddy grabbed his wrist. "In there," he rasped weakly.

Confusion knitted Ellis's brow, but his moment of blissful ignorance was at an end. A shadow fell over the two men, the shadow from the fuckin' deviant asshole that had possibly ended the life of one of his old friends, ended the life of a husband and father of a baby girl, all for easy access to a cash register and booze. A rage such as Ellis had never known filled his body; with adrenaline coursing through his veins like gasoline, Ellis let out a war-cry and flung himself on top of the man.

It was like tackling a brick wall. Ellis had never been the most muscular of men, but he could scrap with the best of them, and usually came out on top. This guy barely flinched as 175 pounds of rage landed on top of him. Ellis felt a split-second flash of fear before he was unceremoniously thrown to the floor. Bells were still clanging in his ears as he got his first good look at the attacker.

"Oh shit!" Ellis barked, immediately flinging his arms out, scrabbling for purchase on the waxed linoleum. A sudden sting of pain announced the presence of a large shard of glass, and Ellis closed his palm around it without thinking. The man above him let out a guttural moan, and then lurched toward him, one hand reaching down for his leg…

Ellis slammed the razor-sharp edge into the man's arm, his own cry of pain mingling with the snarl of anger. He managed to get his leg out of the crushing grasp before the assailant righted himself and advanced again. The gash in his arm was open and streaming, thick ebony sludge oozing from the wound in place of blood. The monster suddenly threw his head back and roared; in the small store, the echo sounded like a pack of wolves howling before a kill. Ellis closed his eyes as exhaustion cloaked his limbs; he curled into a protective ball, raising his bleeding hands to shield his head…

The roar of triumph was interrupted by a screech, a thud, and a volley of curses. Ellis decided to sneak a quick peek at Death before it ran off with him, but before he could open his eyes, a smothering weight collapsed on top of him.

Ellis cracked an eye and found himself staring into two lifeless, cornflower-blue orbs. A brief moment of panic flared as the body began to wriggle, but then Keith yanked the deadweight off and allowed Ellis to clamber to his feet.

"You alright?" Keith asked, his tone suggesting that Ellis had just accidentally stubbed his toe. His nonchalant voice contrasted sharply with his body, however; his tanned face was white as a sheet, and sweat was trickling down his cheeks and disappearing into his beard.

"Still breathin', at least," Ellis responded. He was amazed at how…normal…his own voice sounded. Calm, unfussed…this was good. He gingerly checked the wounds on his hand and knee as Keith kicked the body aside, returned to the door and knelt beside Buddy. Ellis reassured himself there was no lasting damage, and then joined him, a lump rising in his throat as he watched his friend carefully and thoroughly search for a pulse.

"We gotta tell Mandy," he said, his voice still passably even.

Keith gave him look that was both pitying and incredulous. "We ain't got time to tell Mandy shit at the moment," he said quietly, getting to his feet and nodding at the other body in the store. "You have any idea what that is?"

It was a rhetorical question at this point. "Exactly what I always said it would be," Ellis answered anyway, approaching the body and using his steel-toe to push the man onto his back.

The scalp was covered with patches of brittle hair, hair that had once been curly and blonde, but now it was as pale as a ghost. Blood coated the mouth, and a huge hunk of flesh had been ripped from the right cheek. The eyes were the most frightening, however; Ellis had been to several funerals, of course, but had never seen a dead body with the eyes open, lifeless and empty. The red long-sleeved shirt was torn and dirty, with a particularly large rip over one shoulder, a rip that revealed skin that was grey and mottled, still littered with tiny bits of gauze.

"Guess the guy at the bar wasn't an asshole after all," Ellis said in a low voice. He sighed heavily, and then glanced over at Keith, who was currently shoving cartons of cigarettes, beef jerky, chocolate, painkillers, and a whole host of other items into several plastic bags. "What the hell are you doin', man? We can't just start lootin' the place!"

"We ain't lootin', son. We're Plan Z'ing this shit." Keith tied knots in the bags as he spoke. "Grab that dolly and get as many cases as you can. I figured there was some reason I was pullin' double Coors duty earlier." He must have noticed the hesitation; he piled the bags beside the counter and pointed at Ellis. "Don't you go soft on me, boy. What've we always said? 'When shit does down…?'"

"'We get the hell outta town,'" Ellis finished.

"And a fine sight it would be if we hauled ass outta here and got just far enough to drop from starvation. Oh, don't forget some a' that toilet paper. A man loses all hope when he has to wipe his ass with pinecones, and when these nicotine sticks run out, hope's all we have left. Now move."

The atmosphere was tense and alert as the two men worked quickly, gathering the essentials. Ellis stacked beer and sacked chips and snack cakes in a silent, mechanical daze. The Essentials List had been in his memory banks for years now, ever since he, Keith, and Dave had first came up with Plan Z. Plans A (aliens), T (terrorists) and R (robots, inspired by that damn Will Smith movie) had been harder to get perfect, but by now the three men were hardwired to react accordingly in any crisis situation.

As a matter of fact, Ellis was a little smug. Next step was to find Dave and rub aliens in his face.

There was a much more sobering task to be done beforehand, though. As Keith dialed 911 and waited hopelessly for an answer, Ellis unlocked the tiny back office with the keys he found on the counter. Keith snapped the phone closed with a hiss of frustration, and then joined Ellis in slowly transporting Buddy's body into the office. As Keith scouted around for something to place over the body, Ellis carefully tracked down Buddy's wallet, keys, and phone; he placed them with their owner, along with several photos of Buddy's daughter that had been taped above the cash register. Ellis was acutely aware of what was happening, and he knew for a damn fact that he wasn't going to just let his old friend be torn apart.

After the office door had been locked and barricaded, Ellis and Keith transported their relatively-impressive cache to Keith's truck.

"Hey man," Ellis piped up as they leapt into the vehicle, "we gotta stop by the house before we go. I gotta grab a few things."

Keith was already shaking his head as he hit the gas and reverse-swerved onto the road. "We're gonna have to file that one under 'miscellaneous', and we're kinda on the main quest here."

Keith shot through a red light and eased his truck up to sixty. Ambulance sirens squalled as blue and red lights flashed past them in a dizzying array of color and noise. It became almost impossible to distinguish one emergency vehicle from the next as Keith persuaded the truck up to seventy.

"What about Dave?"

"Dave's had the plans pinned to his Snoopy board for years now. If he can't figger out how to meet us at the safe house by now, we should just assume the bastard's dead already."

Ellis nodded, cause hell, it made sense.

"Shit man, what about my mama?"

The truck vibrated wildly as Keith jerked hard to the left to avoid an overturned black car that had blended in perfectly with the shadows of the evening. For a moment it seemed they would take flight, but then the trusty Chevy righted itself and continued to jettison along in a haze of gravel and dust. Keith had opened her up and they were sailing along at a solid eighty-five, unbothered by any lingering police cruisers.

"Your mama's with your daddy, who not only has a damn arsenal in his basement, but also owns the safe house we're about to make tracks for. Trust me, she's fine."

Ellis sank into silence as Keith wrenched the wheel again, maneuvering them off of the road and into the dusty lot of the shop. He pulled around the office and drove alongside a heavily locked garage. Ellis was growing increasingly nervous as he fitted his key into the padlock; the shop was a fair distance from the heart of the town, but the sirens were still ominous chirps in the background.

The padlock was coated in grease and oil from its many handlings, but gave way helpfully the moment the key snapped into place. Ellis unwound the heavy chain from around the handles before flinging both doors wide.

The familiar sight that greeted him immediately calmed his racing pulse. The coal-black Ford F-350 had been a "3 Musketeers" sort of purchase, a project to keep the boys happy and busy so that they didn't get too rowdy on the weekends. The renovations had been time-consuming and costly, but none of that mattered when it was the son-of-a-bitch's time to shine.

"Look her over, we only got one shot at this," Keith said as he pushed past Ellis into the garage. He eyed the truck critically, but there was no adjustment to be made; she was damn near perfect.

Thick steel spikes extended out from the center of the rims, the smooth metal narrowing into razor-sharp points on the end. As Keith gunned the engine and she rumbled to life, a massive set of spotlights assembled in the bed snapped on, and the small room was bathed in light. Ellis double-checked the steel shovel on the bumper while Keith locked removable bars onto each window. Satisfied, the boys left their baby to idle while they hauled in their provisions.

Ellis was finishing up a rather impressive pyramid of alcohol under the spotlights when the roar of an engine outside announced a third party arrival. Ellis immediately dove through the small window in the back windshield, straining to reach the large green duffle hanging from the passenger seat. He finally managed to tug it close enough to unzip; the shotgun he whipped from its depths was already loaded, and in one more heartbeat it was cocked and against his shoulder.

"Put that away before you hurt somebody!" Dave's voice rang out, echoing against the bare concrete walls.

Ellis lowered the gun and swung over the side of the truck. "You alive? Well shit, look's like I owe Keith five bucks now. He was sure you made it, he just figgered you mighta been carried off by them alien friends of yours."

"This ain't no time for that, boy! You seen the shit that's going on out there?"

"Obviously, or we wouldn't be a'havin' this conversation," Keith broke in from above. Ellis frowned when he saw his friend seated in the convertible gun seat. Wasn't no way in hell Keith was getting that spot. It was _his_ idea.

"Quit cha scowling, I'm just makin' sure it's in working order." Keith adjusted the seat, checked to make sure the belt was clasping properly, and then hopped out. "Dave, much as I hate to shorten our odds at surviving this mess, I think you forgot your girlfriend."

"Didn't do no such thing. Crazy woman starting bitching about her coat being ruined when some guy at the movie theater got his fingers bit off and bled on 'er. I ain't got time for that shit. Hell, she could see the EXIT sign better'n I could; she's wearing glasses."

Ellis and Keith were taken aback for half a second before recovering. "Well, I feel a little better about rollin' the dice. Let's get outta here. In the cab, dummy," Keith added, catching Ellis by the sleeve as he tried to sneak into the open gunner seat. "We ain't risking our lives any more tonight than necessary, and it ain't necessary yet."

With their meager market of goods stored, the men clambered into the monster machine; the three resounding clangs that ran out as the doors closed was a sound of reassurance and power.

Beers were opened, cigarettes were lit, and Iron Maiden was soon blaring from the newly-installed stereo. Ellis rolled down his window and studied the blackness around them as wind rushed at him through the heavy bars. Already the night seemed darker; streetlights that were usually dependable were off, businesses that would usually be open were closed. Hell, seemed like there were even fewer stars in the sky. He considered suggesting to Keith that they rev up the spotlights, but he knew they shouldn't bring even more attention to themselves than they were already gonna get.

Keith managed to stay off-road for most of the trip back through town. When they reached the creek they were forced to pull back onto the main road. Keith cursed quietly as a huge mass of parked cars suddenly loomed in front of them. People were milling about amongst the vehicles, men, women, kids of all ages were trying fruitlessly to find order, some semblance of normalcy.

They found nothing, but they were the first found.

The explosion of action occurred in the blink of an eye; one moment, there were normal voices shouting, sobbing, cursing…the next moment, a unison of blood-curling screams erupted from the crowd. There was a brief pause in which it seemed that time had been temporarily suspended, and then all hell broke loose. A flood of bodies surged back towards the creek, away from the city lights. Ellis flinched as a large man was trampled just outside the truck window. He reached out a hand instinctively, his fingers resting on the handle, when Keith grabbed him by the bicep, squeezing so hard the black ink of Ellis's tattoo momentarily whitened.

"No way, son. We're getting the hell outta Dodge!" as Dave let out a whoop in the background, Keith simultaneously slammed the gas and forced the wheel.

The screams that hovered in the night air intensified as the sharp glint of the powerful shovel reflected in the weak moonlight. Keith charged between two minivans and barreled into the other lane. Ellis braced his feet against the floorboard and clamped down on the oh-shit handle as a throng of thrashing bodies attempted to overtake the truck. There was no time to ascertain whether the onslaught was a group of terrified innocents looking for that one last hope, or a horde of melted-skin monsters intent on staining the pale leather seats crimson. The truck discriminated against no one, and Ellis winced in horror as a combination of warm blood and black slime sprayed the windshield. The wheels shuddered as the spikes ran upon the tightly-wedged bodies, and shrieks of pain accompanied the sickening bangs. Ellis closed his eyes, hoping that Keith wouldn't have the same inclination…

And then it was over. The shaking evened out, the shovel met no resistance, and Keith weaved through the traffic at an alarming speed.

As the road ahead emptied slightly and they took the turn for Ellis's trailer, Keith finally managed to loosen his white knuckles from the steering wheel.

"If I ever meet Jimmy Gibbs, I'm giving that bastard _my_ autograph," Keith finally rasped out. Dave chuckled from the backseat, and Ellis relaxed slightly. The horrors that had just unfolded were swiftly locked away inside the small, unused portion of his brain that he was also renting to thoughts of Amy.

"Hell," Keith said, wiping his brow with his forearm. "Maybe we used up all our bad luck already!"

"Or maybe not," Dave pointed out, his voice grim. Ellis followed his gaze to the south, toward the trailer, where a flickering orange light danced against the inky backdrop. As Keith sped around a curve and gunned it through a stop-sign, Ellis felt his heart lodge itself in his throat.

The wall of flames seemed to cloak the entire countryside. The little pine grove that had shaded and sheltered Ellis and his neighbors was blazing and blackened. The first mobile home on Ellis's street had been reduced to an ashtray.

As Keith slammed on the brake and swung around in the middle of the road, a huge buck flashed past, his antlers and chewed wounds glistening like gory rubies in the headlights. Four tan and white beagles that Ellis recognized as his neighbor's screamed for mercy in their chain link fence, trapped between the flames of hell and the jaws of the devil. As one human-shaped conflagration rattled at the fence, the smallest female leapt fiercely at the attacker, only to screech in misery as her muzzle was ripped off through the metal.

Ellis was shaking, sweat pouring as he reached under the seat for the twin Sig Sauers. Dave shouted a warning, but Keith had no time to react before Ellis had burst from the cab of the truck, feet pounding as he thundered across the choking yard.

The half-devoured female was long dead along with one of her pups by the time Ellis put the first bullet between the monster's shoulder blades. It turned on him, growling menacingly, barely shaken by the shot. It advanced, eyes rolling in the sockets as blood dripped languidly from its chin.

There was a moment of inaction, in which Ellis stared into the eyes of a man who was once, for all he knew, a neighbor or friend. His cousin, his mailman, the single dad who sometimes waved at him when he was passing on his way to the fishing hole. If he wasn't safe with the knowledge that they were currently alive and behind him, then it coulda been Keith or Dave.

But it wasn't Keith or Dave, because they were alive. It was just some poor guy who had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, when by some lucky roll of the dice Ellis and his friends had been at the right place at the right time. They were still alive, goddamn it, and this… _thing…_ wasn't.

Ellis squared his shoulders and fired a second shot, and then a third, and then a fourth. The creature shrieked, gurgling in rage, and made one fantastic lurch towards him before dropping into the dirt and smoldering.

Ellis could barely hear his heart breaking over the sudden orchestra of noises. Keith and Dave were shouting at him, the remaining two dogs were whimpering in terror, and a low, monotonous moan was thrumming through the baking yard.

He locked in on that sound in particular, raising his pistols and moving forward. It seemed as though his brain had shorted out; a whine was sounding in his ears, his eyes were running, and his limbs felt oddly heavy. The only sensation he could register through the tunnel vision that had in a heartbeat become his entire world was loss. The loss of everything, his house, Buddy and Mike, those two dogs, of all those frightened kids that were currently being devoured alive as they screamed out to any God who would take them…

Flesh slammed into flesh as Dave knocked his legs out from under him and Keith locked an arm around his neck. He screamed, a scream of rage that no one was sure he was capable of, and then he collapsed. He was aware of Keith shouting instructions at Dave, of being lifted roughly and jangled over to the truck, of being shoved in the passenger seat. And as the chorus of howls and moans soured the sky, Ellis was aware of being forced to turn his back on the only home he had ever known as it slowly burned to ashes.

Little over a half-hour later, Keith had managed to break out of the city limits. More beers were cracked open, hands struggled to light cigarettes with a Parkinsonian tremble, and the Midnight Riders crooned a softer balled from their earliest album. Above, the fewer-than-usual stars shone brightly, quietly mocking the Earth in its grief.

It was midnight of August the eleventh, the last moments of the hottest day of the year, and Ellis was freezing.


End file.
